Piece of fish dating
Whether we care about her or not, we've all done the math on Monica's behalf, parsing out her destiny over warming beers and neglected finger food.
No matter the permutations, there are really only three options: 1.) It happened the seamy way it looks, in which case I feel sorry for her.
The world was beside itself about the latest presidential scandal, this one involving an affair with a then-21-year-old intern—the juiciest story to break in my adult life, a salacious tale of alleged infidelity between the most powerful man in the Milky Way and a girl named Monica. A girl I'd gone out on a date with a few weeks before.
I hesitate here, because I have no desire to appear on Hard Copy or banter with MSNBCeebees, and, essentially, I feel bad for poor Monica and feel unclean adding my feeble barnacle to her ship of fame.
Who among you women would turn down an opportunity to befriend and go at it with the tall, bulky, handsome, charismatic guy who just happens to be president?
2.) It didn't happen at all, and she was/is lying, or, as a drunken, fairly high-ranking administration Clintonista bellowed at me in not-quite-subliminal talking points Saturday night, "She's an ugly girl with a crazy fantasy life!
Imagine if one of those became a new international icon. quislings are hissing about her "wacky" dress is because she has a sense of style, and this city, simply, does not. If fate, Vernon Jordan, and Ken Starr hadn't intervened, who knows, maybe I'd be the only reporter in the world pursuing her.
It is as if my buddy Joe's unconfirmed, unsubstantiated, off-the-record barroom trash talk went right to the front pages of the Old Gray Lady and the rest.
There are three actual facts we know: She swore it didn't happen, he swore it didn't happen, and there are some tapes out there on which she says it did. Don't kid yourself, this isn't about perjury, it's about blowjobs. Barracuda frequently haunt the nether regions of scuba boats, hoping they're fishing boats, and position themselves within jaws' reach of any caught game.
It was while waiting for the first plane at the shack that passes for an airport in Little Cayman that I caught a glimpse of the AP wire story on the front page of the Caymanian Compass.
I was playing with a puppy in the airport office when I saw the headline; the Caymanian reading the paper quickly offered it to me, as I clearly had more interest in it than he.